stop screwing up my kid.

The other day, I was putting on lip balm and asked Ethan if he wanted some. "Mommy," he said shyly, "I don't think boys wear lipstick." He looked at me nervously and longingly, wanting so very much to let me apply some lip balm on his lips like we usually do in the mornings when we're getting dressed and ready for the day. Sometimes I pretend to powder his face with my make-up brush and that, hands down, is his favorite part of our mornings. I tried to remain calm and asked him where he heard that, letting him know that was so very untrue. Boys, I told him, do anything that boys want to do. If Ethan does something, and Ethan is a boy -- well, then, boys obviously do it. In the end, he smiled as he smeared the lip balm onto his lips (and cheeks and chin) and we went about our day. He forgot about the incident, grateful for the clarification from the adult he trusts the most. On the other hand, I felt uneasy. And sad. I felt pretty sad for a long time, to be honest.

This isn't the first time that society -- other parents, mostly -- worked diligently at erasing the foundation that I've tirelessly tried laying for our children. In fact, here are some other things that Ethan ran by me shortly after he heard them at some point over the last few months:

- He's too heavy.
- He shouldn't eat too much if he doesn't want to get too heavy.
- He shouldn't paint his toenails because that's for girls.
- He should like dogs instead of cats because dogs are for boys.
- Boys don't cry and especially not big boys. They really don't cry.

So, world, please? Can you cut it out? Can you stop trying to desperately screw up my sweet child? Can you stop trying to limit him or label him or shove him into a tiny corner based on the limitations you see fit? Can you stop trying to give him body issues or an eating disorder before he even turns four years old?

Since these incidents, I've been able to stop them as they're happening. I jump into Mom Ninja mode and shut down the statements as they're coming out of the mouths of the other parents at the playground or relatives who think they're being funny by telling Ethan how big ("fat," the term they've used) his belly is. It's exhausting. It's exhausting now so I can only imagine how much worse it gets the older he gets, the less I'm able to be around him to step in and extinguish a situation before his heart catches on fire and his spirit breaks.

Stop screwing up my kid. Stop limiting him. Stop harming him with your words and silly, antiquated ideals. Stop telling him that you know what he does and doesn't like more than he does.

People will comment on Ethan's size and shape and make some silly comment about how he's going to play football one day. "I don't like sports," Ethan will say. "Yes you do, you're a boy," they'll say. "I don't like sports," Ethan will tell me in secrecy later. "I don't either, buddy. You don't have to like sports. Not everyone likes sports." He snuggles up onto my lap in relief.

Or he'll fall on the playground and another parent will say "you're fine" or "you're okay" and he'll stand up with tears in his eyes but holding them back. "I'm fine," he'll choke out. "Baby, you can cry. It's okay to cry. It's so, so, so strong to cry and show the world your emotions," I'll say as I pull him into my arms. The sobs will be freed, the tears will dampen my shoulder. "I love you, mommy," he'll say and skip off for another turn down the twisty slide. I'm fine, I'll tell myself but only half believing it.

I've survived so many years as a sensitive person, enough to understand that society sees sensitivity as weakness. There were years where my tears, where my heart, where my sentimentality felt like they were pulling me under but now, as an adult, I see it all as a gift. As an adult, I see it as a gift that I so very much want to give to my child if only the world would stop intercepting and pulling off the wrapping paper before he can get to it.

How beautiful the world would be, could be, if only it had one tenth of the compassion and sweetness that Ethan possesses in his heart.

the go-to friend

I've written frequently about parenting after loss. I've made my case for my desire for the world to remember Wylie as I do, the need for her to exist in the world as she does inside the walls of our home. What I haven't written about, and what I know I need to write about, is what it is to be Lindsay after loss. What it is to be me, what it is to wake up one day and have your entire existence drastically altered.

The thing is, to the outside world, to your friends and family, you look the same. Maybe they can nitpick a little about your appearance -- a nudge that some make-up and clean clothes might do you a world of good; a plea to just wash your hair because you'll feel better, they promise. Maybe they'll suggest you join a gym or go out with friends or stop drowning your sorrows in bags of Doritos every night. But other than these little grievances, you look the same to everyone who looks at you. You laugh at a joke someone tells and they think "oh, there, you're happy now. It's fine now." As sad as they are for you, as great as they believe they feel your loss, their lives go back to how they were before. Their lives go on. You live and breathe each day -- you even have really great days -- but your life never really feels like it goes on. That old life sort of stopped when your child died and, at the very tail end of it, another little life sprouts and begins to grow. It grows slowly and delicately. The outside world likely cannot decipher a difference between your old life and your new life, but you know the difference.

Before losing Wylie, I was the friend everyone came to for anything remotely related to childbearing. After all, my husband and I had Ethan years before any of our friends had even begun to consider families of their own. By the time we made our way through the newborn days and crossed the infancy finish line that is the first birthday, our friends were settling down and making plans for future families. We had made it, as far as they were concerned, so we must have all of the answers. I loved talking about pregnancy and childbirth and all those silly little details you don't know about until they're happening to you (oh, hey, someone is going to come in and squirt your vagina clean with a squirt bottle each time you urinate post-delivery during your hospital stay so, you know, be prepared). Any time was the right time to discuss ovulation or ring slings or which shampoo held the lowest amount of toxins. I was just a phone call away to answer a question about registries and car seats and butt cream and weigh in if they should call a pediatrician if their infant has spit up or their OB if they think they may have lost their mucous plug. I loved helping. I loved planning parties. I loved every bit of the excitement that was watching the people we love step on board into the wonderful world of parenting that we love so much.

But then my child died.

No one likes being told that they can't understand things. No one likes thinking that their sympathy and empathy and compassion isn't enough, I get it. But the harsh truth is just that: if you haven't lived it, you can't really understand. For a loss mom, the grayscale envelopes the cut and dry, black and white world that everyone else sees. It's an alternative universe, at least just a little bit. You see, in my new life, as the new me, when someone tells me they're expecting a child my instinct is no longer to throw my arms up, giggle, laugh, celebrate. My mind doesn't race to "let's plan the baby shower!" and "oh my gosh, how will you design the nursery?" Instead, I smile and nod, offer a congratulations (that will get shit-talked for not being excited or genuine enough) and silently hope this baby lives. I will celebrate when it's born, when it takes a breath, when you're discharged home from the hospital with a healthy child in tow. It's only then that I will be able to breathe and share in a piece of the joy.

This doesn't make me pessimistic. This doesn't make me bitter. This doesn't make me jealous. This doesn't make me negative. This doesn't make me a bad friend. This doesn't make me unsupportive. This doesn't make me unhappy. This makes me realistic, because my reality is different than one you can imagine. It's a reality that is different than the one I myself knew before May 12th, 2014 when I first learned I probably wouldn't be bringing home my baby alive.

I don't really like to talk about pregnancy anymore. I don't really like to talk about any of it. If you met someone who survived a shooting, you wouldn't call them up to discuss your excitement over purchasing a new firearm. If you met someone who survived a nearly fatal car accident, you wouldn't call them up and ask them to joyride in your new sports car with you. If you met someone who gave birth to a dead baby, you probably shouldn't call them up and expect them to want to discuss pregnancy. I hear the word pregnancy and I am back on that exam table, the doctor's hand on my shoulder, being told that there's something terribly wrong with my daughter. Just as you wouldn't call up someone who lost their limbs in a bombing and complain about how fat your arms and thighs are. You see where I'm going with this? Because most people don't.

To most people, I am Lindsay. The go-to friend. The one that wants to plan parties and talk about morning sickness and fill you in on how exciting it is when you feel kicks for the first time. I'm the sounding board when you want to complain about your swollen legs and gestational diabetes drink and how tired you are at the end of the day.

I'm not that person anymore.

I'm not that person anymore, and that's okay. It doesn't make me bitter. It doesn't make me a bad friend. It doesn't make me unsupportive. It doesn't mean I don't care. When you see pink lines and think "I'm going to have a baby," I see a tiny little urn on top of the mantle and nine months of a nightmare -- something more like a hazing than a miracle of life -- that just maybe you may come out of in the clear. That doesn't make me negative. It doesn't make me pessimistic. It just means my reality is a lot different than yours.

I'm now the friend people come to when they know someone faced with grief. I'm the recipient of the text message when someone delivers a still baby, when someone's friend's cousin's neighbor learns in utero their baby won't be making it home. I'm the voice on the other end of the phone serving as proof that you won't die even if you're convinced you will. I'm the comfort giver, the I'll-go-through-it-all-with-you assurance. Whereas a year ago I wouldn't begin to know how to appropriately comfort someone who lost their baby, now it is one of the few things I know. (That, and how to raise a kick ass three year old.)

I don't want to be the go-to friend anymore. I don't want to plan baby showers and hear your plans for your child's future on your drive home from your six week prenatal visit. I don't want to know how your morning sickness is the worst thing in the world or you're hoping for a girl because the clothing is cuter (spoiler alert: it's not). This doesn't make me mean. It doesn't make me a bad friend. Now that I've realized that, and now that I've accepted that, I can continue to work on being Lindsay after loss. Because it's only been seven months since I kissed my baby goodbye forever and that is not a very long time at all, especially not considering I had 28 years to perfect being Lindsay before loss.

tot school - new years eve plus introduction to days and time - age 3 1/2

Ethan has been really interested in trying to understand days and time lately so I knew I wanted to make the introduction in our tot school lesson this week. We did some fun activities for New Years Eve as well which Ethan loved, but his favorite trays this week were the ones about the days of the week.

TODAY, TOMORROW, YESTERDAY MAGNET BOARD

It's been a while since we did a magnet board activity and Ethan was really excited to see one return. This was probably one of his favorite trays this week. No matter what, he made sure we did this tray every single day. He's still at that point where he has to list all of the days of the week on his hands to determine which came before and what comes after, but he is doing great with this and is so proud of himself!

MORNING, AFTERNOON AND EVENING

I printed out some little cards of different activities and Ethan got to sort them by morning, afternoon or evening. He did this one a couple of times but by the end of the week was a little bored with it.

TELLING TIME

I made this clock out of two paper plates. The bottom plate had the minute times so that Ethan could lift up the flap and see 5 was :25 and so on. This tray was confusing for him at first but he really started to get into it. We would choose random times and Ethan's job was to make that time on the clock. One week really wasn't enough for him to fully understand telling time so we will be continuing this tray next week as well.

2015 FINE MOTOR STICKY PAPER ACTIVITY

This being my husband's busy time at work (to put it mildly), I didn't have a chance to finish putting together our tot trays for the week until about 11:00 pm on Monday night. My husband still wasn't home and I realized I was out of contact paper with no chance at getting any before the week started so I just used scotch tape. Here's to improvisation, right? Anyway, the point of this activity was for Ethan to use the tweezers to fill the sticky paper with pompoms. We talked about how it's now 2015 and he started off really into this tray but got bored after a while. It took a long time to fill each number with tiny little pom poms and there were so many other trays he enjoyed more.

BALL DROP

I filled a balloon with some dry rice to weight it a little and then labeled some plates with the numbers 1-10. I would call out a number and Ethan got to drop the ball onto the plate with that number. He really enjoyed this little game! By the end, we were tossing the ball in countdown style, from 10 to 1, and then he would exclaim "HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

CIRCLE THE ONE THAT IS DIFFERENT

This was a fun little dry erase tray for Ethan to circle which New Years items were different. I wish I had printed more sheets because there were only so many times he wanted to do this one! Still, he really enjoyed it at first.

NEW YEARS EVE WRITING PRACTICE

Ethan can write most of his letters by now but writing them on lines is another story. We're back at square one there. I thought this would be a fun activity to help him write short words and practice making his letters on the lines. He got a little frustrated with this one as letters he can write with ease were more difficult to write when confined to a small space, but he really enjoyed the writing practice. I'll probably add more writing practice trays each week.

DAYS OF THE WEEK ORDERING

This was our most popular tray of the week which I didn't see coming. I had painted some corks each a different color and labeled them with S, M, T, W, T, F, S. On the tips of popsicle stickers, I painted each with a matching color and wrote out the full names of the days of the week. At first Ethan practiced matching the days by color and then by the first letter and, eventually, he learned the correct order for the days of the week and ordered them accordingly. He really enjoyed this tray and couldn't wait to show his daddy how he learned the days of the week.

NEW YEARS EVE NOISEMAKERS

We spent a day making some New Years Eve noisemakers out of paper plates, dried rice and pasta and other art supplies. Ethan made quite a few and did so all on his own, minus the stapling which I insisted I help out with. This was such a great independent activity for him to do and he really loved being able to do things by himself from start to finish, minus a little assistance with the stapler.

LINKING UP WITH:

you came to me like a dream, the kind that always leaves just as the best part starts, it all ends so abruptly

It's New Year's Eve. Ethan fell asleep around nine o'clock and my husband is home from work early to rest off day four of Manbola. All this means is I have some quiet time to sit on the couch (granted, I probably should be cleaning my house but where's the fun in that?) and maybe turn my brain off for a few minutes. You know, exempt myself from the pissing contest that is "who had the best 2014" statuses on Facebook. I'm not in the running. Not even close.

The beginning of 2014 was amazing in the way that makes you feel like you're floating through each day, your feet unable to reach the ground because you're so inflated with happiness and goodness and promise. All of the incredible milestones in my pregnancy helped make the beginning of 2014 the dream that it was. I got to watch Ethan slowly fall into his role as big brother, one that he wanted and looked forward to and took seriously as he helped me paint his baby sister's room for her. For a while, we were so happy. We were getting ready to bring home our second child and then the middle of 2014 hit and we wound up bringing her home a lot differently than we intended. In the span of two weeks, the dream that we were living slowly morphed into some kind of sick, twisted nightmare and I'm still trying to get myself to wake up from it all. I feel dazed. I'm also slowly adapting to permanently feeling dazed. It's probably normal to long for your old self back but at some point you realize your old self isn't going to come back so the best you can do is learn to live as the new you.

2014 gave me a beautiful daughter. It took her away, but it gave her to me first. My body and my life and this world are all changed because of the impact her tiny body left behind. 2014 was the year that let me hold her and kiss her and there will never be another year to let me continue my time with her. It's a sad thing to feel grateful for, but I'm grateful for it, the time I was able to spend with her. It will never compare to what could have been, what should have been, but it was time spent with her.

Of course, the beautiful little boy sleeping so soundly in his bed with a pile of matchbox cars by his side and a toy plane in his hand, decked out in seal pup pajamas. He is the beauty in each day. He is my motivation to get up in the morning. He is the reason I can smile and mean it, laugh and feel it. He is happiness tucked into harem pants and raglans with spaghetti sauce on his nose and dirt in between his toes. When I first found out I was pregnant with him, well, I thought he saved my life then. The truth is, he saves a little bit of this life for me each day.

I'm still healing. I'm wanting to rid myself of every ounce of pain that 2014 insisted we feel but I'm not wanting to wish away the moments that I spent with Ethan. I have cherished each one. I have taken in every hand hold and shared laugh and conversation and song. I am grateful for his joy that he so generously shared with us every day of 2014, even the painful ones. I have found hope in his smile. It's hard to want to fast forward through the immense joy and strength he has given me.

2014 was a hard year. We lost a child and that kind of grief doesn't end when the year does. All I can do is take the hope that Ethan gives me without realizing it, take the strength that he lends me, and push on.

2014 taught me the meaning of friendship in a raw way. It taught me that when tragedy strikes, you'll know who loves you by who swims upstream to reach you while you're suffering. Thank you to everyone who reached us. Thank you to everyone who stood next to us as we marched on after Wylie's death. Thank you to new friends who came into our lives because of grief, because your strength rubs off on me a little more each passing day. Thank you to everyone who never let me think for a minute that we were in this alone. I did a lot of growing this year and not by any choice of my own, but the world looks different from my new view and with my new perspectives.

This is probably the first year since I was a teenager that I've stayed up until midnight on New Years Eve (I mean, I have an hour to go but, still, a record for me). It's not on purpose. I never really know how to turn my mind off and it felt appropriate to make a post to say goodbye to the most painful year of our lives even though I began this post by not wanting to reflect on it.

See you in 2015.

meet jennifer reina of jennifer reina photography

Sometimes the world works in funny ways and you're just sort of thrown into meeting someone you wind up being really grateful to have met. That was me when meeting Jennifer Reina. After Wylie died, I was invited to a couple of different events and was nervous to attend given that the main focus was (what else?) babies but I went with my gut and went to the events and wound up leaving with a new friend in Jennifer. You know how sometimes you just click with someone, like you just get this vibe that they're a really special person and you should exchange social media handles? Well, I felt that way immediately about Jennifer. I'm a big proponent about moms building up other moms and Jennifer is, too. When my friend and I launched Kids & Coffee Clothing, Jennifer stepped in and gave us an amazing photoshoot to help us launch our line. I wanted to take this opportunity to introduce you to someone really special with a beautiful story and an incredible talent.

That up there is the artist herself, the lady behind the camera, Jennifer Reina of Jennifer Reina Photography. Based in South Florida, Jennifer churns out some of the most incredible newborn photography that I've seen. When you take a peek at any of her images, you notice immediately the level of true talent and passion for newborn photography that Jennifer has. There's no over-processing, no crazy photoshopping, just beautiful, serene, organic newborn portraits that completely capture the essence and beauty of infancy and how truly amazing these new little lives are.

Getting to know Jennifer more in depth, I began to understand her passion for newborn photography and why she feels so strongly towards capturing these new, fresh, special moments. Having moved around a bit before landing here in South Florida last year, Jennifer felt drawn to newborn photography and wanted to pinpoint it as her creative niche. Having struggled with infertility for six years before the birth of her beautiful little boy, Jennifer understood the importance of capturing these precious moments and how big these tiny little lives were to the parents who love them. Jennifer's attention to detail and ability to create these flawless photographs and memories as these little ones begin their big lives are her way to contribute. While Jennifer and I have different stories and different struggles, I understand where her heart is coming from and, let me tell you, it's coming from a place as beautiful as her work.

From the moment we stepped into Jennifer's studio, you just felt the calm totally take over. Jennifer's studio is completely serene and that is the perfect way to describe a space created with natural, organic photography in mind. I couldn't believe Jennifer's array of accessories and props. Instead of the crazy, vibrant, bothersome and distracting props you'll see in other photography studios, every last item in Jennifer's (super impressive and incredibly organized) stash is calming and natural. They are accessories, not the main focus which is exactly how it should be. Jennifer's studio clients include newborns and their families. She is currently growing a wardrobe collection for parents and siblings as well.

Jennifer's love for photography doesn't end there. She also loves to help her clients figure out the perfect way to display their photographs. I'm a social media oversharer, too, but Jennifer makes a good point how you'll want your photographs displayed somewhere other than your social media accounts in the long run. She offers a free design service with every session as well and offers many packages that bundle the digital images with some art prints as well.

To my South Florida readers, friends, family and people who know someone who knows someone who is expecting, I encourage you to read Jennifer's blog post on how to select the right newborn photographer. Actually, Jennifer's entire blog is pretty excellent, so check it out (and ooh-and-aww your heart out over all of the beautiful images she shares!).

A girl after my own heart, Jennifer is also a social media master so stay connected with her on Facebook and Instagram.

Thank you to Jennifer Reina Photography for the beautiful images, insight and letting me introduce you and share your story!

If you're in South Florida, contact Jennifer to set up your little one's newborn shoot.